Lynne is away for a couple of days, breathing the rarified Shakespearean air of Stratford, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me this week.
Interest from a production company. Those are words to light a flicker of hope is any writer. Of course, 99 times out of a hundred that interest turns to dust very quickly. And even when an option is signed, the chances of it becoming anything more are slim.
But still we persevere…
Yesterday I received an email from my agent. She’d been in touch with a production company that wanted to see my work, the first books of a few different series. Did I have the pdf of such-and-such a book?
Luckily, I did, although I’m not sure why I kept them. Habit, I suppose. But I know full weight that the odds are very heavily stacked against anything of mine making it on to any screen. I write historical crime, ranging in time from the 1360s to the 1950s. That hugely increases the costs of any kind of production. Think about it for a second: not just costumes, but sets, especially exteriors. Where are you going to find a place that can stand in for 18th century Leeds, for instance? Certainly not in the city itself. And Chesterfield in the 1300s.
It’s a lovely idea, but it’s not going to happen. And, honestly, there’s a piece of me that actually doesn’t want it to happen. These characters are precious to me. They’re family, and I’m not so certain I want them to be prodded and poked by scriptwriters. But far more than that, I have the images of them, their voices and manner, in my head. If they were given physical form all that would change. They’d become so concrete that I’d start writing to the figures on the screen, not the ones who live in my head. They’d change, it would be inevitable.
So, in the unlikely event that anyone makes an offer, I’m going to be torn.
Does that seem sensible, or am I utterly stupid?